Change of Heart
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: A change for Dean gives him a different perspective on Sam.


_First appeared in _A Small Circle of Friends 15_ (2012), from Neon Rainbow Press_  
_Based on the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode, "A New Man"_

**Change of Heart**  
K Hanna Korossy

"This seat taken?"

Dean almost smirked into his drink. Yeah, right. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't drunk alone. He waved a hand vaguely to the side, giving permission to claim the free bar stool.

"Thanks. Man, I need a drink. Long day at the office, y'know?"

Talkative strangers—well, talkative male strangers whom Dean wasn't sizing up as marks—were on Dean's list of least favorite things, right around busted fan belts and wailing country music. But the guy's words drew a commiserating snort out of him before he could stop it. "Yeah." He tossed back what was left of his beer and thumped the bar with two fingers to request another. "I do."

Thankfully, the guy didn't follow up, which was just fine by Dean. Gave him more time to stew over the reason he was there in the first place.

Or, rather, the reason Sam was not. Because, okay, yeah, his brother had never been much of a drinker…well, before he'd gone into mourning for Dean, anyway. But he'd still hung out with Dean, even if he spent the night buried in his laptop or a pile of newspapers. Poor company for others maybe, but Dean had always liked having him there, knowing Sam was watching his back, knowing he wanted time with his brother as much as Dean did.

And then Sam had gotten involved with that skank, Ruby, and suddenly a demon was a better companion than his own brother. Dean seriously didn't know why Sam bothered pretending; they both knew about his middle-of-the-night disappearances, knew Sam was fooling no one when he went out for food and took three hours to come back. Dean had wished Sam would just tell him the truth, until the siren's poison had made him do just that and, guess what? Truth hurt a lot worse. At least until then he'd been able to pretend that Sam still respected him and was grateful for what he'd done, but not anymore. So, yeah, good plan there.

"What's her name?"

He'd almost forgotten about his stoolmate. Dean finally turned his head, enough to catch young features under a mop of fair hair. A bottle of hair dye and some stilts, and the guy could've passed as Sam's shadow. "Huh?"

"You look like a guy who got walked out on. She have a name?"

"Samantha." Dean chortled to himself at the joke, well aware he was more than a little buzzed. The fact he was even talking to this guy proved as much. But, crap, a guy needed to talk to somebody and…the room and the car had been really lonely lately, even when Sam was there. "Name's Samantha."

"Ah." The dude—he looked like he was still in college—nodded knowledgeably and took a swig of his own longneck. "Yeah, I figured. Another guy?"

"Girl. Ruby." The witch-bitch herself; how did Sam not see that was the friggin' king of all bad ideas, listening to a demon?

The guy winced. "Ouch."

Dean's mouth quirked. "Dude, you don't know the half of it." He started to take another drink, beer hovering a moment before he set it down. "I gave up everything for Sam. Went through Hell, y'know? And Sam picks her. S'like I'm not even there. Feel like a friggin' fifth wheel…"

"Tough luck, man. Maybe she just needs a reminder of what's important."

"Yeah, maybe…" Dean stared morosely at his beer, wondering now why he'd even bothered going out that night. Wasn't like the alcohol ever really took his mind off what hurt, and it just made him do stupid things like open up to Chatty Cathy there. Although, kinda felt good to talk to someone, even if the guy had no idea Dean was moping about a prodigal little brother instead of a fickle girlfriend. He sighed, reaching for his wallet. Time to get back to reality.

"Naw, dude, I got it." His barstool buddy already had his own wallet out. "Go home. Things'll look better in the morning, I promise."

Dean squinted at him, suspicious for the first time. "What?"

The guy smiled, and he even had freakin' dimples like Sam. "Hey, I've been there, too. 'Least I can do for a bro who's been burned."

Dean looked at him a moment longer, but the guy was pulling out a couple of bills and dropping them on the bar with a grin, then tipping his beer at Dean. Well, all right then. He nodded back. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Dean shuffled out of the bar into the cool night air and took a breath, feeling it clear his head.

Terrific.

Sam was making some messed-up choices, and he was lying to Dean, and that hurt, yeah. But only a pussy went to a bar and drank themselves under and whined about it to some stranger. Dean growled softly under his breath as he strode off toward the motel. This was the last time. Maybe he'd finally confront Sam about it, or…or maybe he'd just shut up and keep letting it ride because his brother was a big boy now and could make his own mistakes, and it wasn't like he was _cheating _on Dean or anything. He had the right to spend time with whomever he wanted, and Dean knew he wasn't such great company those days, with his Hell flashbacks and nightmares and teary confessionals. Geez, no wonder Sam wanted to be anywhere else but with him.

Yeah, Dean thought as he burrowed into his bed shortly after. Going out and getting drunk had made everything look _so_ much better.

Promises or not, things did not improve in the morning.

Dehydration and hangover whacked against the inside of Dean's skull, shoving him closer toward the threshold of awareness with every dull thump. He groaned, twisting his face away from the first streaks of dawn coming through the blinds, his head feeling twice its size. His mouth tasted rank, his tongue swollen and rough, and his limbs felt heavy and stiff. Groaning again, Dean rolled over and out of bed, just making it to his feet instead of his knees.

The other bed, of course, was empty.

Dean grimaced and stumbled toward the bathroom, every step a roll of thunder through his brain. His neck wobbled under the weight of his head, and his skin felt coarse when he rubbed his forehead. Geez, he was getting old if a couple of beers made him such a mess. Well, he was creeping up on seventy in Hell years, right? Dean chuckled bitterly at his joke, wincing when the laugh rasped in his ears.

He bumped against the bathroom threshold, blinking stupidly at it a moment before he could figure out how to get through the doorway. He reached for the faucet, licking his lips at the thought of cool water.

Something flickered in the periphery of his vision. Dean's eyes narrowed, and he looked up at the mirror over the sink.

A creature looked back at him: dark gray, spiny, with mustard-yellow eyes and teeth that qualified as fangs. Even as Dean stared, stunned, a forked tongue flickered back into the sneering mouth.

A second later he was lunging for the room and the weapons bag.

The zipper wrenched off in his hand, and it was only then that Dean really looked…and saw the scaly-clawed limbs that were tearing through the side of the duffel bag like it was paper, curling into a fist in panic. His hand.

His face in the mirror.

He was the monster.

No. No, no, no, this was just another nightmare, another gift from Hell that kept on giving. They'd twisted his perception down there, too, made him think he was a demon, sent him torturers masquerading as Sam, his dad, Mom. Nothing quite like this, but Hell was nothing if not creative. This was simply another attack on his sanity, and any moment now Sam would be shaking him awake and Dean would pretend nothing was wrong and the only monster in him would be the one hiding in his heart. Any minute now, any…

A phone started ringing. Dean brightened; maybe that would wake him up.

But nothing seemed to change, and he shook his head, one…claw pinching the skin on his opposite wrist. He felt that. Making a face, he glanced around for his phone, seeing it in a heap with his wallet and keys on the table by the door. Dean grabbed for it. Wake up—he had to wake up. Talk to somebody who would—

The phone crumbled in his hand like it was made of aluminum foil. Dean's hand jerked open, and he watched the pieces of plastic shower to the floor.

This was nuts. Shapeshifters changed into other things, although Dean had never heard of a transformation into a monster unless you counted the cheesy movie monsters that one shifter emulated. Some real shapeshifter monsters existed, yeah, although they tended to stay far from civilization. But a guy didn't just wake up one morning turned into a bug like that dude in the book Sam had talked about once. It was crazy. Almost like—

Almost like d'jinn or trickster crazy. Like a guy in a bar who was a little too friendly.

Swearing, Dean automatically grabbed for his light jacket, getting in one arm before he heard it tear down the back. Right, idiot, he was about twice as bulky now, not to mention spiky and ugly and, crap, this was bad. Any hunter he tried to contact to help him would shoot him first, and Sam…Sam hadn't exactly been in a listening mood of late. Maybe if Dean hid in the bathroom and talked to his brother through the door? Except his voice sounded like…

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam?" he said.

Or tried to say. What came out was more like "Oov?"

Awesome. Dean sank down into the chair beside him and winced his eyes shut as the wood cracked and collapsed under him, dumping him to the floor. Just…friggin' awesome.

Okay, the dude at the bar. Maybe Dean was wrong about him, but he didn't think so, and it was a place to start. At least he wouldn't be there for Sam to kill whenever his brother finally came back.

The door came off in his hand. Dean no longer bothered to do more than sigh, tossing it back behind him and lumbering off into the early morning stillness, on the hunt.

00000

Sam got out of the car down the street from the motel and sighed as he watched Ruby drive off. He wondered sometimes why he bothered; Dean knew where he was and, Sam was pretty sure, exactly when he left and came back. His brother had long stopped watching out the window, waiting for Sam's return. All the subterfuge just felt like a stupid game of denial now, letting them pretend Sam wasn't off doing what they both knew he was doing, and he wasn't sure it was worth it anymore. Yeah, it avoided some awkward conversations, but the dullness in Dean's eyes, the betrayal that flickered across his face every time Sam lied… Sometimes he wasn't sure that was better.

Then again, the siren forcing his fears and pain out in brutal, blunt accusations hadn't exactly improved things, either. Maybe this silent distance between them, as much as it sucked, was still best.

It wouldn't be long now, anyway. Sam was getting stronger every day, and soon he'd be ready to take on Lilith. With the First Demon dead and the Apocalypse averted, Dean would see it had been a necessary evil, nothing personal, and they could get back to being brothers again. Or so Sam consoled himself in his most optimistic moments. Other times, he had a strong feeling he wouldn't live to see that day and that he would die bearing the weight of Dean's disappointment. But maybe at least his brother would absolve him and understand in Sam's death what he hadn't been able to in his life.

God, he hoped.

Emptying his lungs in a long breath, Sam tucked his hands in his pockets and headed up the block toward the motel.

At least the Impala was there. The car still brought a warm ache to his chest, a promise his brother was near again instead of a reminder he was not. It meant Dean hadn't gone out drinking all night, or trying to bury his pain in a faceless girl. Those were the nights Sam felt the guiltiest, when it was obvious Dean needed something—love, sympathy, support—and Sam wasn't there. He knew the bars and the women were poor substitutes, and he always flinched when Dean stumbled in after Sam's return, empty-eyed and reeking of despair.

It was only as Sam neared their door that his hands slipped out of his pockets, his fragile relief evaporating like mist.

The door was broken. Not busted like from a SWAT raid; the door had been torn off its hinges and was lying splintered just inside the room.

Heart double-timing it, Sam stepped over the pile of wood. "Dean!" There was no sign of his brother, but the carnage continued inside: a chair was smashed, Dean's jacket lay torn on the floor. No body revealed itself in a quick sweep of the room, but…was that…? Sam crouched to gingerly pick up a chunk of plastic. It took close scrutiny to reveal it was a piece of Dean's phone, crushed almost beyond recognition. The strength it would take to do that…

It felt like something had grabbed his lungs and squeezed just as hard. Sam shot to his feet, eyes frantically ping-ponging around the room now. "Dean! Answer me, man." Nothing behind the beds or in the closet. No blood stains. The bathroom was empty and untouched. No Dean.

Swearing under his breath, Sam darted outside to look inside, under, and behind the car. Nothing. The pavement was dry, free of any fresh stains, or signs of who had been by there. No leads.

Sam turned back, hand clutching at his hair. "No, no, no," he muttered. He couldn't do this again. Losing Dean had almost killed him, literally. To lose him again now…when Sam was so close to saving him… He couldn't do it. He'd—

No. Sam's hand dropped. No, this wasn't about him. He could kick himself across town later; right now he needed to find Dean. Fast, before there was a blood trail to follow.

He was going to find his brother, and what took him. Sam nodded to himself, pulling out his phone. He'd find them in time, and then he would make Dean's kidnapper very, very sorry it had ever crossed the Winchesters' path.

But no determination or rage could stifle the flame of fear that still burned hot inside his chest.

00000

Being a monster sucked.

It wasn't exactly something Dean had pondered at length before, although thanks to his emo brother, he'd given some thought to the plight of innocent monsters such as Madison and the rugaru guy. And he'd felt empathy for them, of course; it wasn't their fault they were dangerous. He'd even let Lenore go with the weak promise that her band of vamps wouldn't be getting any human takeout. But hiding in society when your outside freak belied your internal innocence, that was really screwed. Just went to show, things could always get worse, especially if your last name was Winchester.

It had crossed his mind, of course, somewhere between slinking through the local park and ducking down a nearby alley, that maybe his outside freak _was _just a reflection of what he was inside. After all, how many monsters could claim the toll of misery and torture Dean had inflicted down in Hell? He already knew it had tarnished his soul; what if this was just what he should've looked like upon his return? It was no less than he deserved. The thought kept him huddled a long time in the shadow between two dumpsters, paralyzed with horror.

That didn't make sense, however. Castiel had pulled him out and made him what he was now. Dean thought the angel cut him a little too much slack for his extra-life activities, but Cas wouldn't _lie_. Besides, why now, months after his return? Coincidentally after he'd spent a night mooning into his drink over how Sam was ignoring him now and complaining to an oddly convenient stranger about his issues. No, there'd been something freaky about the dude the night before. Maybe the guy had even dosed his drink. Dean was probably lucky he hadn't woken up naked in some stranger's bed the next morning.

Right, because waking up in a strange body was so much better.

Dean growled, a sound that was much more impressive with his new vocal cords, and lurched to his feet, continuing to make his way to the bar.

A car was coming. Dean pressed against the rear wall of the nearest store to keep out of sight. Most folks would run at the sight of a creature, but there were bound to be some who would fight back, and the last thing he needed was to be engaging some stupid, well-meaning innocent. Not to mention letting it get back to Sam that there was a monster in town. That would go over well. Dean flattened himself against the brick even more.

A brunette in a small car was driving past. A brunette with a familiar profile.

Ruby.

Dean found himself snarling, teeth bared. The instinct that flooded him would have scared him another time, but at the moment it felt right: Hunt, Rage, Kill.

He flung himself out of the shadows, toward the car.

Dean was close enough to see Ruby's jerk of the head, the O of surprise her mouth made. Then the car wrenched with her, jumping a curb, skirting a fire hydrant, only to run into the corner of a building with a deafening crunch.

Score! Dean howled in victory, clamping his jaw shut when it came a little too close to a real howl, and turned away. A demon wouldn't die from a car crash; there was no need to go check on her. Still, it made him feel better.

Until he saw the little girl standing behind him on the sidewalk.

Dean froze, eyes darting around. There: Mom was standing two storefronts away, her attention snagged by something in the window. Never expecting her five-year-old—complete with pink coat and backpack—to be faced with an early-morning nightmare.

Dean cringed, turning back to the girl. She couldn't have been more than five, probably on her way to kindergarten, and her puckered lips reminded him of Ruby's startlement. Sheepishly, he raised a hand, claws tucked in as much as possible, and waved. "Roo?"

The brown eyes went wide, and Dean knew the shriek was coming before it burst out of her, panicked and shrill.

Mom's followed, and then she was rushing toward them, arms out for her baby.

Dean was already gone, fleeing back into the alley, not stopping until he was crouched, panting, behind the bar, the sound of sirens faint in the distance.

Yeah, being a monster? Sucked beyond belief.

00000

It was when he was lingering in the lobby of the local police department, trying to figure out his cover, that he heard about the monster sighting.

Sam cocked his head, listening while he pretended to be absorbed in the pamphlet on fire safety he'd picked up.

"…ran her through the breathalyzer, but she was totally clean. Besides, her five-year-old? Kid was _shaking. _This wasn't just Mom tripping."

"So what do you think they saw?" the officer manning the desk asked breathlessly. Apparently, reports on monsters were few and far between in town. "I mean, seriously, a huge gray creature with scales and horns?"

"I know, right? I figure it's either a hoax—maybe those idiot Newcott brothers again—or we've got some wild animal on the loose. I put a BOL out, just in case."

A snicker. "Right, 'be on lookout for the creature from the black lagoon.' Bet we'll get a lot of calls on that one."

"Hey, you got a better idea…"

In fact, Sam did. He set the pamphlet down and walked out the door.

A big grey monster. There were all kinds of possibilities in the living folklore they dealt with, including a manitou, any relative of the azeman, even a gatorman. The country was dotted with local creature celebrities: Momo, the Fouke Monster, Orange Eyes, the Winsted Wildman. He and Dean had just been passing through the town, not drawn there by any particular job, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd stumbled on to one anyway.

And most of those creatures were intelligent, enough to sense danger from a hunter. And carnivorous.

Sam's face darkened as he got into the Impala and fired her up. Okay, so whatever it was that had gotten to Dean hadn't just taken him apart in their room: thank God for small favors. That meant it wanted him for something, took him somewhere and quite possibly was keeping him alive for a while until it got it. Maybe it was even using Dean as bait to draw Sam in, too.

He bared his teeth in a hard smile as he pulled out onto the road and headed for the place the creature had been sighted. If the thing was trying to lure Sam in, that was great, bring it on. It would be the best news he'd had all day.

The street corner the cop had mentioned was empty, the traumatized mother and daughter long gone. There was the remainder of a wreck across the street, a lot of broken glass and some scraps of fender, but the lack of investigators or emergency equipment seemed to indicate it hadn't been a serious crash, and the cop at the station hadn't mentioned another witness. Just a random accident then.

A police car lingered not-so-subtly down the street, but Sam knew how to look like a disinterested passerby. He walked slowly past the site once, then swung back as if attracted by something in one of the shop displays. Still nothing. But he was only a few feet away from the dark mouth of an alley…

Sam slipped inside.

It stank, like most alleys did. A repository not just for the trash of the shops backed up to it, but also for the animals who scavenged the garbage, it offered a cover not just of smell but of bulky trash receptacles. Sam made his way methodically down the row, peering into every corner and examining every shadow and stain.

About a quarter of the block down, he found what he wasn't sure he'd been looking for.

He crouched low, ignoring the stench, and examined the traces of a footprint left behind next to a convenient puddle of oil. It was incomplete, but the size of it, the odd oblong shape, the taper of claws at the end, clearly set it apart from any natural source.

"Gotcha," Sam whispered.

He had a direction now, and some idea of the size and weight of what he was looking for. Sam stood, gauging the alley and what he remembered of what lay beyond, then started walking again. His mind was already sifting through the possibilities, eliminating anything without claws or the bulk the print obviously suggested.

Another puddle, this one of some scummy liquid, wide enough to almost cross the alley's width. The creature couldn't avoid it, and a heel print made Sam speed his pace. He was on the right track.

It should've felt more satisfying.

It was hard not to think, however, that this wouldn't have happened if he hadn't gone out the night before, and Sam pressed the nails of his hand into his palm in self-anger. Of all the times he'd snuck out on Dean, his concerns had always been for his brother's emotional well-being, not his physical safety. He'd never once thought he was leaving Dean with his back unprotected, but why hadn't he? Since when had their job ever taken a break for the night, or the things they hunted respected the boundaries of their room? He'd let this happen, he'd left Dean, still reeling from Hell and broken and fragile, to face whatever had busted into that room. The thing had torn Dean's clothes and crushed his phone and carried him off. For all Sam knew, Dean was in Hell again, an earthly one this time, and the thought that he could've stopped it this time…

He ground his teeth together as a scuff in the dirt led him around a corner. Maybe he hadn't prevented it. But he swore to _God_, he was going to save Dean from it.

This time he was keeping that promise.

00000

The bar, unsurprisingly, was closed. Dean glanced at the sky, estimating—his watch hadn't survived his suddenly much thicker wrist—and figured it was mid-afternoon. Still hours to go before the honky-tonk would open up for the night.

Hours he didn't have. He hadn't bothered covering his tracks, he'd been so intent on flight, and it was only a matter of time before the mother's story about the monster that tried to eat her kid would send police looking for the escaped alligator or whatever. People believed what they wanted to, but that just meant they'd be looking for a more mundane threat than…whatever Dean was now.

Sam would know, and the thought of his little brother made Dean wince. Would Sam assume he'd taken off? Maybe he would be glad to finally be on his own. What had Dean been lately but a thorn in his side and a drag on his training regimen? Maybe Dean disappearing would be a relief.

He dug his claws into his thighs. No. No, he refused to believe that. Maybe, possibly, Sam would welcome the solitude if Dean told him off and walked out on him. Maybe, even if the idea hurt almost like Hell. But thinking Dean had been dragged off against his will, or worse? Sam was still his brother, and Dean knew the kid still loved him, even if he had a funny way of showing it those days. No, Sam would come looking for him, and would worry and persist and pretty much bring down the wrath of God on whatever had dared hurt his brother.

And, yeah, that wasn't worrisome at all, considering that Dean currently looked like something that would break into a room and drag a guy off.

He grunted softly, reaching up to rub his neck, only to quickly drop his hand when claw met scales. Uh-huh, he was pretty much screwed.

As if the universe had just been waiting for him to admit it, that was when the car drove up and empathy guy from the night before got out and walked into the bar.

Dean stared a moment, trying to figure out if he'd just imagined that. No way could it be that easy. But the guy's car was there, a lame Toyota, and he'd unlocked the door with a key. He'd mentioned an office, but maybe the bar was a second job? If he worked there, it would make sense that he would show up early to set up. Besides, it wasn't like Dean _wanted _things hard, right?

He just seriously distrusted anything that wasn't.

He glanced both ways. Silent stillness. There were no other cars in the lot, no other employees showing up for duty yet. It was his show.

Awesome. He pushed up on his thick legs and hurried forward.

Claws weren't made for turning doorknobs. Didn't matter: Dean was past the point of finesse. He just slammed both hands against the wooden door, and watched with some satisfaction as it fell into the bar. Dean: 2, Doors: 0.

He strode inside, eyes immediately sweeping the place.

Nothing. The lights were on, but the place was empty. There were restrooms and a kitchen and no doubt a storeroom beyond; maybe the dude had—

"You could've just knocked, you know."

If Dean hadn't been sure before, he was now. The figure that straightened up from behind the bar didn't look the least bit surprised to be facing a five-hundred pound gray monster with sharp teeth and claws. In fact, he was smiling as he swiped a dishtowel over the rim of a glass.

"Not that we're open yet, but I had a feeling you'd show up early."

"What did you do to me?" Dean barked, almost literally. In fact, it came out as a series of grunts and garbled syllables, but the guy didn't seem to have any trouble understanding him.

"Me?" He blinked as if in surprise. "Nothing. You were the one who set the terms on this one, Dean. You went through Hell for Sam and he doesn't even seem to notice you're here, you feel like a fifth wheel, blah, blah, blah—any of this ring a bell, bucko?"

Dean's eyes narrowed, not missing the use of correct gender for Sam. Whatever this was, it knew him, had probably known him from the start. "Dude, I was letting off steam, not asking for a makeover. If this is some kind of weird vengeance-demon twisted way of granting wishes…"

The guy threw his head back in a laugh. "Vengeance demon—that's a good one. You watch too much Buffy, kid. No," and he suddenly looked very serious, "no demons involved. No angels, either. Not everything is about Heaven and Hell, you know."

Dean glared at him. "Fine. Whatever. Honestly? I don't really care who you are or what your game is. But I want out. Change me back."

"Oh, sorry, no can do." Fine blond hair shook almost regretfully. "You see, your wish isn't granted yet. We're just waiting for one more player now."

The flush of rage was a little more startling this time, if no more unwelcome. It coursed through Dean's veins, making him feel powerful: Hunt Kill _Feed_. "I didn't wish for anything. Change me back now, you sick son of a bitch, or I'll…"

The guy almost seemed amused, setting down the glass and leaning forward on both palms. "You'll what?"

Dean's limited patience ran out. With a roar, he charged the bar, claws out.

Which was, of course, when the back door of the bar slammed open, and Sam appeared.

00000

The trail ended at the busted-down door to a bar, déjà vu to the motel.

Which was…okay, a little weird. What, did the creature get thirsty in the midst of its wreaking havoc? Unless…maybe it was keeping Dean here? Sam leaned forward, head just sticking out past the doorframe, trying to see inside without giving his presence away.

There was definitely something large and looming standing inside. It sounded like it was gargling, the noises it made harsh and foreign as it growled at something behind the bar. Sam couldn't see what was going on, but there was a car in the parking lot.

Cursing to himself, he ducked back, thought a second, then started running for the back of the bar.

The lock took seconds to pick. Just in time, because the creature had apparently gotten tired of talking. Sam heard it roar, and burst through the door, gun in hand, just in time to see the overgrown reptile charge the guy standing behind the bar.

Sam couldn't help hesitate a second. Killing the creature meant not being able to find out what it'd done to Dean. But it didn't look very intelligent at that moment, not to mention that it was ready to snap the bar guy's neck, and Dean really never would forgive him if Sam saved his life at the cost of an innocent.

With a growl of his own, Sam brought up the shotgun and fired.

It barely slowed the creature down. Its hide must've been tougher than it looked, and iron buckshot wasn't that big. The monster was still reaching for its intended victim, and Sam cursed, switching out shotgun for the Taurus tucked into his jeans. He fired the clip at the charging beast.

He could actually see some of the bullets bounce off, especially from the spiny head. But at least two found vulnerable spots, one in the inner upper arm, the other in the crease of hip and leg. This time the creature staggered, turning finally to face Sam, something almost startled in its bearing.

Sam ground his teeth together. He'd been fooling himself thinking he could get anything useful out of the creature. It was as animalistic as Sam had feared, probably didn't understand anything besides hunting and killing even if Sam could communicate with it. The best he could do now was put it down, make sure it didn't hurt anyone else, then keep looking for Dean. And hope, somehow, he was still alive.

Sam dropped his gun to pull Ruby's knife.

"Uh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," the guy behind the bar said.

Sam scoffed. Right, because letting it disembowel the guy would be so much better. "Get down," he snapped, advancing on the creature with measured, furious steps. The thing was impervious to bullets, but a blade through the eye, _this_ blade, would stop it no matter what it was.

The bartender—Sam figured he was the bartender, anyway—sighed. "All right, but I'm telling you, you're making a mistake." He slid down behind the counter.

The creature had its hands up, palms out. Surrender, Sam scoffed. "Too late for that—you shouldn't have taken my brother."

"Oov. Grr fmm."

Sam sneered. The thing wasn't even putting up a fight; the bullets must have weakened it. He almost wished it would. It deserved a slow death for what it had done to Dean, and Sam had a lot of furious fear just looking for a target. The thing did look like it wanted him to stop, but the wounded animal act wouldn't get it anywhere. Sam raised the blade, lunging forward the last two steps.

The creature dropped its hands. It wasn't trying to protect itself at all, practically offering itself to Sam's blade, and the submission made him hesitate in his downswing. The bartender had said he was making a mistake…

He stayed his hand. "Where's Dean?" he asked harshly instead, arm still hovering in its killing blow. Maybe the thing _could_ understand him, and wanted to barter. Not that Sam would spare it in the end, but if he could get Dean back first…

The creature thumped its chest almost dejectedly, then just looked at him.

Sam snarled and raised the knife a little more.

And for the first time, really _looked _into the thing's eyes.

They were the color of honey but oddly sorrowful and frustrated and…and forgiving as they gazed back at him. Looking at _him, _not the blade in his hand, like Sam was all that mattered.

Sam knew that look. He'd seen it all his life.

He almost dropped the knife. "Dean?" he breathed, anger bleeding into profound relief. His arm fell limp at his side as Sam stumbled back a step, mouth opening in horror. "Oh, God."

"I tried to tell you…"

The voice dragged Sam's eyes away, to the bartender who was straightening up from behind the bar. Only, it wasn't the fair-haired young guy Sam had glimpsed when he'd stormed inside. This face was far more familiar.

"You," he accused.

"Voo," the creature—Dean?—yipped at the same time.

"Me," the trickster agreed, and smiled smugly.

It felt good to be in his own skin again.

"_Now_ your wish is granted," had been all the trickster—and, really, Dean should've recognized the sadistic demi-god's MO in this—said before snapping its fingers. And Dean was Dean again, standing there in the shorts and t-shirt he'd gone to sleep in.

Sam just stood staring at him, knife loose in his hand, gaze darting between his brother and the trickster, the fire in him completely gone.

Dean couldn't pay attention to him yet, not like he wanted to with Sam looking so adrift. Not while there was a threat there. He turned to glare at the trickster. "Had fun?" he asked coolly.

"With you two?" The being grinned at him. "Always. But this wasn't just about fun and games. Remember what I said before, Sam, about Dean being your biggest weakness?"

Sam seemed to pull himself together, anger once more stirring in his gaze. He didn't respond.

What the trickster had said to him…at the mystery spot, maybe? Sam had been sketchy at best in his details about what had gone down in his final confrontation with the trickster, and Dean wondered anew as his gaze moved between the two.

"Well, that ship's sailed, so here's your new lesson for the day: you two chuckleheads? You're all the other one's got now. If you're not on each other's side, no one is, _capice_?"

Dean frowned, sensing the echo on Sam's face. "What—?"

The trickster rolled its eyes. "Come on, guys, do I have to spell everything out for you?" It focused its bottomless stare on them both. "_Pay attention_ to your brother. Listen to each other." His mouth quirked. "And always let your conscience be your guide," he sang.

A snap of the fingers, and he was gone.

Dean stifled a groan. "Well, that was cryptic."

Sam snuffed in a soft breath. "Yeah," he murmured, but he looked thoughtful. Dean stretched out a hand to him, the _let's go, Sam_ on his lips, when Sam seemed to blink himself awake. He stared at Dean—or rather, Dean's arm—and shuddered with something near horror. "I shot you."

He'd already noticed that, actually. Hard not to when blood was dripping off him onto the floor and it felt like someone was poking a hot stick into the muscle of his arm and the joint of his hip. Still, it was with all honesty that Dean could say, "It's not bad, dude. Those scales were, like, Kevlar."

Sam shook his head, tight-lipped, as he stuffed the knife away and pulled out a handkerchief to wrap around the wound on Dean's arm. Deciding the leg injury wouldn't be fatal if left untreated for the moment, he ducked under Dean's good arm, careful of his hip. "C'mon, let's get back to the…" He faltered.

"The room?" Dean supplied through gritted teeth. Crap, that hurt. "The one with the door I turned into toothpicks?"

"I thought something got you," Sam admitted sheepishly. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he managed to maneuver Dean over the broken bar door and out to the car without jarring his injuries too much. "The room looked like it'd been taken it apart and you were gone…" He leaned Dean carefully against the car so he could open the door.

"Yeah, well, you try doing anything with fingers as big as exhaust pipes and claws," Dean said sourly, easing in. His hip wasn't as bad as his arm, staining only his upper thigh, and he held his arm close against his chest so the blood would go on his t-shirt instead of the car seat. The bleeding had already almost stopped. The scales probably had kept the bullets from penetrating too deeply, and Dean was almost grateful.

Sam peeled off his jacket and laid it over Dean's lightly clad body, then pushed the door shut and hurried around. A minute later, they were headed back to the motel. Maybe they couldn't get their room back, but belongings still had to be salvaged. Dean couldn't blame Sam for not having thought of that when he'd first discovered the wrecked room.

The thought warmed something deep inside him, though. As did the rage he'd seen in Sam's eyes—rage for _him_—and the shock and horror and, yes, hope that had replaced it.

"What did the trickster mean, your wish was granted? You wished for this?" Sam suddenly spoke up next to him, his eyes intent on the windshield.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean said dryly, "I wished to turn into a nine-foot gray mini-Godzilla."

"Dean," Sam bit off in frustration.

"I don't know, okay? I didn't know it was him, first of all, and I was pretty buzzed and just…letting off some steam."

"About what?" Like a friggin' dog with a bone.

He opened his mouth, closed it again. _You_, he almost said, but didn't for so many reasons. Like how utterly pathetic it was that he'd been complaining about his brother sneaking out on him, like they were married or something. Or how much it bugged him Sam was doing it at all, that Dean was actually going out and drinking himself into oblivion to forget it.

Or how wanting to have Sam's attention, even if for just a little bit, instead of that bitch getting it all, had manifested in his becoming a menace Sam couldn't ignore.

"Dean?"

He jarred himself back. "I don't know, Sam, I was just…feeling kind of useless," he didn't quite lie. "I mean, Apocalypse is coming, and I'm sitting in a bar having a beer?"

"So…he changed you into a monster?" Sam's voice was pregnant with skepticism, and, okay, it did sound pretty ridiculous when he put it like that. Sam was smart and it wouldn't take him long to put wishful thinking together with _pay attention to your brother. _But they both also knew how little right he had those days to demand the truth from his brother.

"Guess so," Dean breezed back with a shrug.

Sam chewed his lip, that ginormous brain obviously working overtime on that one. He still hadn't said a word when he reached the motel room—which, surprise, was cordoned off with police tape—and finally turned to Dean. "You gonna be all right for a minute?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, just go."

Sam went. A moment later, he emerged empty-handed and grim-faced, and stalked without a glance at Dean toward the motel office. Soon he was lugging several duffels back to the car. The weapons bag wasn't among them, Dean noted wearily, but it seemed like Sam had already cleaned out most of it before he started tracking Dean, and what was left wouldn't trace back to them. No huge loss.

He sagged back in the seat, finally letting himself relax as he heard Sam pack stuff away in the trunk, then they headed back out on the road.

The next thing he knew, Sam was hustling him into another room that could've been the twin of the first. "Lie down and let me clean you up," he said quietly.

Dean did, grunting with relief at finally getting horizontal. The blood was mostly dry now, but the torn skin and muscle still burned with every motion. He was grateful for the prick of the needle that promised topical anesthetic, then for Sam's careful, experienced touch as he cleaned and tended the wounds.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there last night."

It took Dean a second to decipher the unexpected words. "At the bar?"

Sam's head shook. His hair was getting too long, his sideburns poised to take over his face, but he didn't seem to notice like he didn't many things those days. Or so Dean had believed, at least. "When you…changed. I should've been there to watch your back."

_It's okay _would've been a clear lie, and _whatever _was more dismissive than Dean wanted to be in light of the rare apology. He couldn't stop remembering Sam's face falling when he realized he'd nearly killed his brother, the same despair that had been there after the siren had bled them dry of the truth. "Don't think you could've done anything to stop it," Dean said ruefully instead, wincing at an especially hard pull of the needle.

"At least you wouldn't have had to deal with it on your own. I didn't know—I almost killed you, man."

Dean made a rude noise. "Dude, I totally had it under control."

He could just see the corner of Sam's mouth pull up. It was good to know he could still make his brother smile. "Right." Sam kept sewing, tying off each stitch, but hesitated when he reached for the gauze, his head finally coming up, eyes visible from below the fringe of hair. "Dean…you know… right?"

He almost asked _know what?_, except that would have been a lie, too. Because he did know, always had, even if maybe he forgot it sometimes. But he knew Sam loved him, even if he was doing it in a way right now that Dean didn't get or approve of, that even hurt. It was love nonetheless, not apathy or hate or evil. If he'd had any doubt of that, Sam's sudden transformation from dangerous hunter to relieved and horrified little brother back at the bar would have eliminated all doubt.

_Your wish is granted. _Stupid trickster.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean said with all his heart, and saw the stoic mask slide, just a bit. "I know."

**The End**


End file.
